


MAP

by Hipsterian



Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 09:58:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16741855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hipsterian/pseuds/Hipsterian
Summary: Minho is exhausted but he can't fall asleep.





	MAP

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!   
> Thanks for your time reading it! This story is super short and very indulging. I tried to make it soft and fluffy, but I'm sure I failed badly.   
> As usual, English is not my native tongue, so sorry for all the mistakes you'll find in there.
> 
> Again, thanks for reading and I hope you'll like it.

**MAP**

As tired as he is, he can’t fall asleep. His mind is buzzing with ideas, with fears, with dreams to come true one day. The air is dark and cold and he shivers under its coath, longing for summer nights to come back, a place to snuggle and rest and sleep for a while; his head spins around, dizzy, at full speed - and he can see stars rounding around.

He lit a cigarette and lets the smoke drown onto him, escaping his lips, warm, intoxicating; the night wraps him and from atop he thinks about the colors of the sunset, how he misses its shade on his skin like pouring rain, washing away the sins committed and that weights inside his soul. He drags of the fag, letting the nicotine setting on his lungs - it tastes like spring hills in full bloom, fresh, like drops of drew wetting grass on a winter midnight. It is flavored with something that he imagines is him alone and, with the picture drawn on his eyes, he thinks he can sleep now.

He cannot. The night grows deep, the streets muffled, silenced under clouds of dust and the stars don’t tilt nor shine on the sky. With a glance over the window, he feels lonely, melancholic.

The hall is empty, dim light coming from the TV that Jinwoo isn’t watching - he has gone to bed so many hours ago, but the standby light gleams like a thunder through a storm and he is soaked with terrors - not for the darkness or the roar of his mind, but for the lack of another person to hold him tight.

Minho finds comfort cuddling on the couch - it is still warm, Jinwoo’s fragrance (strawberry and peach of his shampoo) lingers on the back of the headrest, swirling softly to him (it is reassuring, as if he was there and Minho could close his eyes for a little, let him take away the nightmares). But Jinwoo is not really there and the spell shatters into pieces when the heat stops ghosting on the leather - the world is cold again and Minho trembles, remembering all the things that are waiting for him ahead (but they are things for tomorrow and it is yet today). The weariness on him sinks further, making his limbs numb and useless. He falls into the dark, he lets it embrace him, digging into it as if welcomed - but he is afraid of not waking up, anxious and troubled and nervous; there are so many consequences if he fails, so many people he could deceive, let down if only he sleeps a little too longer; he has to plan and to prepare, he has to get ready, he can’t take a rest. But he can only sink deeper into the void, into the nothingness.

It is warm again. Around Minho, white noises wake him up. He opens his eyes to the light - the morning shines on him as if a beacon of a smile and it holds him like Jinwoo. Jinwoo is by his side and it’s his smile the one that inflames his heart. He hugs him out of content. He is alive and the blackness is gone, replaced by all the colors that belong to Jinwoo. He strokes his back, calming, assuringly - he breathes in, filling his chest with the sweet perfume, his mind is quiet and he is so thankful to have him. It has been so long since he had enjoyed such a peaceful moment; inside his friend’s arms, he closes his eyes and finds that this time, he isn’t scared.

It is strange but whenever he is at lost, whenever he needs help - when the panic is so real that he can’t even scream nor wash it on a page, turn it into a picture to screw into pieces, Jinwoo is the one to lead him back home; he holds the key, the map that guides him to reality again and, when he looks at him, with eyes that are made with love and care and adoration, Minho feels at ease (Jinwoo is so soft that he can melt his fears); Jinwoo is his compass, his lighthouse when the storm is raging and he can't hear his own yelling, he is steady hands, and steady feelings.

“Sleep well, Minho, you must be exhausted,” he hears him whispers whilst pushing him from his arms to his bed, tugging the blankets around him, making sure he is covered and well. “Sleep well, my sweetie, my love, my heart”, and there are smooth lips on his forehead, hands cradling his bony cheeks with so much tenderness, fingers caressing his skin gently, dancing carefully, tracing circles that swell him with affection and pride - Minho smirks on his slumber and Jinwoo stares at him adoringly, beaming at the beauty he holds so dear and his chest pulses his name down his blood, his smile balming his skin, lulling him with the sound of his voice singing for only him (he sings Last Dance so softly, shooting like a warm picture).

When Minho wakes up that afternoon, entirely recharged, his heart soft and completed, beating under the sunset he has so much missed, he promises himself to let Jinwoo know that he loves him, too.


End file.
